Marching On
by Laylania
Summary: So many wars we've fought, there's so many things we're not, but with what we have...we're marching on.  Blaire OC /Logan Wolverine


**Authoress Notes **- Alright! My first X-Men story! :D With Wolverine, no less! ;D

**Claim** - I own all original characters, which means I own Blaire.

**Note **- I am aware that Blaire's powers will almost be the same as Rogue's, but when you think about it, Mystique's powers are similiar to Rogue's as well, though not to that extent. Also, Blaire's abilities are a little different than Rogue's.

**Disclaim** - I do not, however, own X-Men. Marvel does, sadly. :(

_Chapter One: Always Running_

Running.

Sometimes, it seems as though I do nothing _but_ run. Always moving, always thinking. I have to do this to survive, otherwise, I'm a goner. I race up the three flights of stairs to my apartment and kick the door open in my haste, pushing back strands of hair away from my face as I begin grabbing everything not nailed to the floor and shove it into my worn-out backpack.

Toiletries are shoved ontop of my clothes and a few wornout paperback books that I keep on hand, and I glance up, eyeing the clock nervously. I know that I'm already running on borrowed time, and the longer I stay here, the greater my chances of being caught are.

Gripping a pair of dark sunglasses, I close my eyes, concentrating. I can feel the change to my physical form happening, though it isn't painful, like most would believe if they saw it - it's like being doused in ice-water, the sensation flowing all the way through my scalp.

Grabbing a handful of hair, I check to make sure the color is consistant before shoving the glasses onto my face, not caring to check the color of my eyes. My clothes have changed as well, and I'm considerably shorter than I was just a few minutes ago, though I have no time to pine over my loss of height as I throw the backpack over my shoulder and slip towards the window.

Tossing it open, I slide through the window and begin descending the flights of stairs outside the apartment complex, quickening my pace when I hear the sound of a door being kicked open, followed by the murmur of voices. I leap down the last handful of stairs, stumbling a little before regaining my footing and taking off at a brisk walk, head down.

Paranoia fuels my instinct to avoid people until I reach the underground subway station, and I breathe a sigh of relief, ducking into the bathroom. I ignore the puddles of water on the floor and the disgusting odor of mildew and rotting garbage and enter a stall, closing my eyes as I force another shift in appearance.

I can never keep my eyes open during the process, though it isn't like I want to. I mean, who would want to see their skin changing color and texture when they can feel their bones shift in structure? It's a revolting feeling, honestly, and one of my dislikes about my powers. I can feel everything that happens to me.

When I step outside the stall again, I'm confronted with my appearance as I observe from a cracked mirror, pulling on a few strands of hair, which are now a muted red-color. Taking off my glasses, I watch as the last few tendrils of what might have been bright blue bleed away, replaced by dark, vivid green.

Satisfied, I slide the glasses back onto my face before heading back outside, rummaging in my bag for a handful of cash as I head for the ticket booth.

"Seattle, please," I say, and the man behind the plastic window eyes me lazily before taking the money I hand over and slipping me a ticket. I know that I probably look like some strung-out tweaker, though I can't bring myself to care as I slip towards the station.

Feeding my ticket to the machine, I hear it whir before I tear the receipt and the ticket before tossing the paper into the trash, walking away as quickly as I can without looking suspicious. I can't afford to leave traces of myself behind, no matter how minute. If there's anything my over-bearing military father had ever taught me, it's that you can never be too careful.

Especially when you're not exactly what people would call _normal._

It's nearly midnight, according to my watch as I squint at the neon-green numerals before lowering my wrist, sinking into one of the empty seats with a sigh. I'd watched a great many of the people get off in the past few stops until there's only two people remaining - myself and a man who's sitting towards the end of the compartment.

He's got the look of an alcoholic to him, though I know better than to judge a book by it's cover, the rough beginnings of a beard covering his chin in dark brown tufts that match the hair on his head. His head tilts back, and I wonder if he's asleep, his arms folded across his chest.

It's then that I become aware of the pounding in my head, and the exhaustion that blurs the edges of my vision. This is the longest that I've ever maintained a change without proper rest the night before or food. Burning in the back of my eyes forces me to close them, and there's a cold sensation that lets me know that I've begun losing my grip on this particular change.

Forcing myself to keep calm - panic only forces the change to fade faster -, I rummage around in my bag for something to eat, frowning as I come up with a handful of skittles at the bottom. Shrugging, I toss them into my mouth, though I know it's far from enough to resume the change of my eyes.

Another sweep of my bag gives me a half-eaten granola bar and another handful of skittles, and I devour them without a second thought, trying to quell the ache of my stomach. It gives me a little bit of energy, though not much. I play with the wrapper because I have nothing else to do, not being in the mood for books.

Movement out of the corner of my eye captures my attention, and the paranoia begins to flood back into my veins as I glance from the door to the sleeping man, wondering what I'll do if -

"Stay quiet, kid," the sudden words make me jolt, startled as I turn towards the man I'd previously thought asleep. His eyes, a dark brown, narrow upon me. "Stay out of the way and you'll be fine."

He stands as the doors to the compartment slide open, and the deafening sound of gunfire fills the air. It's much louder than television makes it seem, and my ears ring with the noise as the man stumbles back, and then drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes as one of the helmeted men turns towards me. "Unidentified mutant female, you are"

He's cut off as a boot swings into his head, knocking him to the ground as the brown-haired male swings extended metal claws at the guns, slicing them to chunks of metal. Standing, I concentrate upon the shadows stretching over the floor and immobilize the final officer, who'd been about to swing his gun at the other man's head.

When he turns towards me, confused, I crack a grin. "Sorry, I don't play the part of a damsel."


End file.
